A CORSAIR SONG. O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Feel to the rising bosom's inmost core, Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? No dread of death if with us die our foes Save that it seems even duller than repose: Come when it will- we snatch the life of life. what recks it by disease or strife? Let him who crawls enamored of decay Cling to his couch, and sicken years away; Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head; Ours the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, Ours with one pang- one bound escapes control. When those who win at length divide the prey, TRANSLATION OF A FAMOUS GREEK WAR-SONG. SONS of the Greeks, arise! The glorious hour's gone forth, And, worthy of such ties, Display who gave us birth. CHORUS. Sons of Greeks! let us go In arms against the foe, Till their hated blood shall flow, In a river past our feet. Then manfully despising And all her chains are broke. Oh start again to life! At the sound of my trumpet, breaking Sons of Greeks, &c. Sparta! Sparta! why in slumbers With Athens! old ally! Leonidas recalling, That chief of ancient song, Who saved ye once from falling, In old Thermopylæ, To keep his country free; And like a lion raging, Sons of Greeks, &c. FROM THE TURKISH. THE chain I gave was fair to view, These gifts were charmed by secret spell That chain was firm in every link, But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet- till thou could'st think, In other hands its notes were such. Let him, who from thy neck unbound Who saw that lute refuse to sound, Restring the chords, renew the clasp. When thou wert changed, they altered too, "Tis past to them and thee adieu False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. STANZAS TO THOUGH the day of my destiny's over, The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit hath painted Then when nature around me is smiling, I do not believe it beguiling, Because it reminds me of thine; And when winds are at war with the ocean, Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not contemn They may torture, but shall not subdue me "Tis of thee that I think - not of them. |